My Dearest,

I wish I were a writer or a poet or a painter. I wish I had enough tools to recreate the floods of emotions I feel at this moment. I wish words could ooze out on their own; colors could create its very spectrum, and express them on my behalf. But they can't. They are our slaves, having offered their services to us. It's up to me now how to make use of the services rendered by them. I had been reading the letters, classic ones, written by great women and men of our time. I was rendered speechless. How eloquent, how devoid of drama, they were. I wish I could write one. Imagine my helplessness my dearest- so much to say, but words fail me. Maybe I failed them.

I can still hear the soft humming tunes of a Sufi singer, playing softly in the background. It's so easy now, to understand why he is your favorite singer and why the song represents who you are. The words he sang, the song he played, took me to the recesses of your mind. It's a dark place, a lonely place. I am probably an intruder there. It's a memory lane where bits and pieces of your life had been guarding it, where an eternal sunshine brightens up the backstreets, but is too bright for trespassers like me. It can be frightfully blinding. But I took my chance, and crossed the barrier, into the unknown, knowing I might not come back. I might not come back the way I was. For better or for worse, I probably would be a changed man.

Dear love, it is now so easy writing a letter, knowing it would be anonymous. The anonymity provided by today's technology has made it easy, impersonal. I don't want you to know it's you I am writing to. You are always on my mind. I can smell you even when you are not around. You have left your fragrance all over my body. I can take a shower, I can spray Chanel No 5, but you will always remain. I try to comb my hair with my hands and I always find few strands of hair. Only it's not reddish brown, its curly dark black. I look into the mirror, and I can see my swollen lips- a reminder of your soft caresses. It's a reminder that you have left a part of yourself with me, your taste mingling with mine.

But you also left behind a teardrop, cascading like a waterfall. And you have also left behind your agony in your trail. You have left your smiles; I can see them when I see my reflection in the mirror. But the hurt and pain that you feel all the time, you have left them behind in my eyes.

I yearn to hold you, I long to pull to close. I don't wish to kiss you or touch you, but hold you like no one had done before. I wish to cradle you, like a mother to her child, but I know I won't be able to. Neither can you. I wish I could take away your pain, release you from the agony. But if I do that I know I will be destroying a part of you. I can't ruin anything that defines you. You have let me in, when you shut the doors to others. You have given access to everything you treasure; you have given me the key. I wish I could hold onto it, as long as you want me to.

Sometimes I feel an intense jealousy, of the way you are. How is it possible for you to love someone, so unconditionally, so profoundly, that it has become a part of your existence? How is it possible for you to love someone, even after being ripped apart? You have spent endless nights, tossing and turning in your bed, lying awake, going over the moments you were happy together. .. "There is no greater sorrow than to recall in misery the time when we were happy."-Dante.

Sometimes I wish I had been given the ability to forgive and to love someone like you do. How lucky she must have been, the subject of all your letters, the object of your passion. How fortunate she must have been, to have you love her, caress her, idealize her, for years. Now that she is gone, she still remains the inspiration behind the poetry. She will always dwell in your heart. When you take us on a magical journey, your voice guiding us every step of the way, she will remain the force that gives you courage. I wish I were you, I too would have done anything to love someone the way you still do.

Instead of love I felt emptiness. The nothingness used to me, digging a hole into my soul. Sometime I wondered did I really even have a soul. Would you believe me if I told you, you are the reason that has made me believe? You are the one that has made me realize I too have a soul. I am not merely skin and bones but I too have a heart? You have slowly drawn me into your narrative, am so blessed you know. I should have felt like an outside locking in, but you made part of your story. I don't feel like a bystander. If this were an opera or a musical, you have made me feel like the third lead, having a huge role to play. I feel I am a part of your shared past.

Can you ever forgive me? Can you forgive my clumsy attempts to disentangle you from it? It was my vanity I guess, that wanted to claim you as my own. But now I understand my dearest, you are not merely a human being, an object of my affection. You are much more. All your complexities, your anxieties, all your night terrors and obsessions, your valiant attempt to be yourself again, and your eventual defeat to your first love, defines who you are.

The person I want you to be, the person I want to possess, is my imagery. You dwell in the dried leaves of the spring, the ones that canopied the soil. You dwell in the countless evenings, when the parks had been dark. You dwell in my Inbox, my voice mails, where I can still hear your cries. You dwell in hidden box; I had kept away from prying eyes. You dwell in the songs you sang, the poems you wrote a long time back. You dwell in my heart, as my friend, who needed me to hold his hand.

My dearest, please don't panic. I am not abandoning you. I am merely saying am here for you, guarding and protecting everything you have, as long as I can. I wish I were a poet, I wish I could write well. I wish I could write it and post it, and wish the mailman had delivered to your hand. I am too much of a coward my friend, I can't let you see them. The world will read what I have written, but will remain unseen by your eyes.

With love